


The Wrong Way

by starktony (noblydonedonnanoble)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/starktony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet moment after the Budapest aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrong Way

**Author's Note:**

> Written for stopecclestonneglect on tumblr.

                Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t allow this to happen. I don’t like to let men fix up my wounds for me; they always seem to think that I’m admitting some sort of weakness. Right. Because the secret thing that Russians don’t tell you is that we’re all impervious to knives and bullets.

                Clint, though… well, I can’t tell if this is better or worse. Because he isn’t saying much of anything.

                I’m sitting on some uncomfortable, lumpy bed in a grimy hotel room in Budapest, and he’s on his knees next to me, wiping away blood and making sure that my wounds are all clear. He’s humming to himself; I can’t stand it when people hum, but I told him to stop and he started up again so I guess it’s a subconscious sort of thing.

                And he’s being so… careful. He’s always careful when he touches me, and I never quite understand it. I’m a Russian spy. I’m the best of the best. Clearly, I don’t need to be coddled.

                Right now, he’s focused on a spot on my back, right beneath my left shoulder blade. I got cut up there pretty bad, and while the bleeding has essentially stopped at this point, the blood that _did_ come out has stained my skin and he’s wiping at it carefully.

                I turn my head slightly so that I can look at him, but all I can see is his hair. “You know, blood doesn’t go away without a little elbow grease. I can handle it if you put a bit of pressure on that.”

                “Natasha, darling. You have your way of doing things, and I have mine.”

                “But mine is the right way…” I murmur.

                He laughs slightly, but doesn’t bother to respond.

                “Sometimes I think you forget that I’m not a China doll that you’re going to break if you so much as touch me,” I say after a while.

                Clint still doesn’t answer. He’s moved on to a bullet hole in my right arm, studying it to clarify that I took it out cleanly enough. As though I might have done that wrong, too.

                “Really, Clint, battle scars are supposed to _hurt_. Or have you forgotten that concept?”

                Until this point, he’s been using a damp cloth on my arm, but he throws it to the floor now and leans too close to my face. “Would you like me to find a ball of wire to clean you up with instead? Or perhaps a splintered piece of wood. Mark your skin up even more than it is already.”

                “Yes, please do.”

                He scowls and picks up the cloth before continuing. “I’m almost done, Natasha. C’mon, look at me. You have that cut above your eyebrow, and it’s still gushing.”

                I turn my head and stare past him. “It is not gushing; you exaggerate.”

                “Really.” He touches the cloth to my forehead for no more than a second before pulling it away and holding it in front of me. “What do you call that?”

                Without even glancing at it, I sigh. “Dry, Clint. It’s _dry_ blood.”

                He doesn’t answer me.

                Clint puzzles me.

                And I don’t particularly like it when men confuse me. It’s simply not right.

                When I glance at him, he’s gazing into my eyes instead of at the spot he’s clearing of my— _dry_ , I swear it’s dry—blood. And that just confuses me more.

                “I don’t understand you.” I say softly.

                “What’s to understand?”

                Oh, Clint. I understand everyone, so what is it that makes you so different? “Plenty,” I murmur.

                Neither of us says anything for some time.

                “There we go,” he breathes. “All clean.”

                “You didn’t have to do this.”

                “Why shouldn’t I? I kind of got you into that, didn’t I?”

                Kind of got me into that. What an understatement. I roll my eyes. “Five hours, and the facts already sound pretty fuzzy in your brain. Did you lose some brain cells today?”

                “Says the one who practically got beaten to a pulp.”

                “Clearly I didn’t get banged around too much, because you were able to clean me up without even trying.”

                “There is no wrong way to clean battle wounds!”

                “Except your way, I suppose.”

                A few times, Clint begins to say something. Each time, he falters before getting even a word out. I attempt to raise my eyebrows, and groan slightly at the sudden jolt of pain that spreads through my forehead. “Ow.”

                He laughs quietly. “Ow?”

                “Ow.”

                And then he’s kissing me. As with every one of his touches this evening, it’s soft, and incredibly hesitant. Like he expects me to punch him. And admittedly, the thought crosses my mind.

                But I don’t, and instead lean in toward him a little bit more.

                Clint is the one to pull back, but I’m the one to speak. “Your way is definitely the wrong way to clean battle wounds.”


End file.
